Country Line Road is two lanes bordered by pines, kudzu, and wide open fields, overgrown and underworked.
You once told me that nowhere was Hanover with winters below twenty and an open window over your bed that chilled the top sheet to frost.
I say nowhere is a cow field, a bare-chested farmer in undone overalls spitting tobacco into the wind.
Nowhere is a window into wilderness, chiggers, raccoons, and squirrels high jumping off a tool shed.
Nowhere is a Waffle House with a blacked out “l” and miles of unlit county roads.
Nowhere is a lone cursor flashing on a single blank page, a white room lit blue by a laptop screen, the crick of tired fingers typing and backspaces an eight count on a stubborn key board.
But sometimes, I dream of a cow field, of empty grass peaked by trillium and buckthorn.
I dream of home, of Airport Road, of parking curb side to watch an Boeing 747 come in.
That is my nowhere.
Nowhere has infinite patience, no regard for time, for schedules.
It just keeps growing.